Years as gold philosophy
sky sailing, restricted much
in sweet wallflowers known to be birds,
bonfires, charmingly cold
after-dinner stupidity
hesitation, wishing garden bells were seasons, works
which handed you the sunset
a flake, sky sea-iris
some of it lying pianos, joyful lights,
spout lips dirt-grimed lady-shining
as most multiform scripts
seeds rise, there’s sunlight
familiar rocks, somber love and God
cathedral on press sheets
red at office flanks
glass image wheels
suddenly without dusk
open you alone,
the way you ripple my eyes,
spread nothing on dead Roman wings
asking the trees for some music – fine jungle halls
to remember
slip poised, together, facing your wings,
conducting the starless sheaf, after all,
we’re finally together

ANIMAL HANDS

World servant on vacation… not my life at all
in reality, I have no body, this tiny veil of sanity
does not cover my bare, bloody bones… these bones
are there for you, to spit on their shade and move on
proceed to your notebooks and passions… it is no den
of comfort, no immortal item… no amulet
of the past or things continued… no miserable material
identifying my sovereign chemistry… I smoke too much
my soul needs fuel, I drink too much, my blind environment
bleeds for any comfort, shrooms are never Christ
the Light King, merely transitory demands for fiction
ingoing streams of disintegration, windows of bricks, satisfaction
in eternal exercise… in hearts and lines unknown, voids
and scents of electricity, poisoned crows stuffed with magic
she is clearly Death… broken breath link, faith substance
sighed, the principle view… she is Blake – circled, continual
sweeping of eyes, bourbon is never Christ, a carefully-arranged
dense reincarnation
in animal hands instead

RESTLESS CUBES

Rain falls on our impulses, forbidden formless waves
against sparkles of dancing flowers, shoreward
wet in gallop, hidden along strokes of moonlight
a hopeless song in the wings of dullness

Dead tears, powdered blue gods, furrows of sleep
on bright cruel breasts, beloved rock of sacrifice
never warm, manifold faces of heat, fresh mouths
of bitter rats, terrible children to this country

New walls rise every day, each man is left
shaking, next to the railroad line, Polish
winters are cruel, measuring trains, scraping off rust,
old paint, aluminum swollen eyes, high speed
dancers on linear glass, falling on every mirror:
the next rebirth is closer, a terrible giant
of bathroom wall graffiti, oppression of dogs
in her camera lens, leaning onto each other's
failure, parting ways with beloved folk, fighting
phantoms of coal, running from turnaround friends,
delicate urban deaths, synthetic pastures of god,
time zone choking fingers, while cloths of flesh and dust
uncover the room, so suddenly stripped
off its pride, amazed like you, the woman I'll always lose
and learn to lose again... I'm sorry for the
inconvenience, but this here is cupboard wasteland,
uninhabited poet territory

SAILOR’S BREAKFAST

Her relief appears
drums on a highway
in austere script
chew ultra-violet sun
growl
easy to help you
in last minute sea

I’ll have some coffee, please
and a dreamlike breakfast
pretty
personal
far from the city
ionic calm

draw groups of flare
on the table
miles of the moon
hot-dogs
soothed afternoon eyes
decades left for further sailors

THE PRISONS ARE EMPTY

Sold my collection of old LPs
let the road shine forgotten
allowed the sands to take my name
packed the basics
allowed the pictures to take my face
improvised over the morning
laughed at the immaculate dawn
raced with the night
& won
found my ex in the same old quarter
her favorite corner
asked if she had the will
if the Tarot reads well
if spiders left apartment
found some ancient wine
took her for a walk
met river tribes
seen no policemen
later found my guitar as well
dusted, untouched
knives and candles
buried well in the veil of names
addresses
blood
case filled with lyrics, notes
& sand
staggered, coughed
picked a proper doorbell
rang twice
yawned to the end of night
I know that bitch too well
found an answer to sleep
curly hair approached
velvet breath
fingers of azure
winter coat in the middle of June
that's me, approach the lover
kisses from your brothers
both are now dead
good to be back
the city looks brave
younger
enthralling
perhaps that's because
the prisons are empty

LEGEND

Flame painted sky opens wide
shows nothing
but slow coke heaven
white walls in ruin
prostitute angels
sucking
the Red Flower
dry
shows ages of spirit's
roadblock
slaves' energy
fragmented hands
groping for earth
where they were thrown
immediately after
the Tree
was plucked
shows nothing
but close dementia
messiah madmen
prophesying a very close end
when it's already
done
& this culture
has nothing more
to offer
but stale repeat performance
feasting on swollen corpses
till it's forgotten
what it's like to
actually
create
how it's like
to be
absolutely
wrong
& sacred
in mistake

SIZES OF TIME, PICTURES OF BLACKBIRDS

Blackbirds framed heavy
full on your branch, familiar to you
dark budding pools of fingers
autumn chandeliers on fire.

We used your dead bridal cloth
feasted on wistful hermits.
stale high skies, kisses of flowers,
ripples of shells from rage to pain.

And thirteen overcast pines, prophesied
of return. Unswerving glade, so young
and cold, singing of deep calm space
mermaids and easy Indian time.

Pointed street, the root of our planet
hollow, laughing, sedated in little
quakes, crushes the old chandeliers
rushes towards the square sad sky
and makes the blackbirds sing
out of frame.

BROKEN IS BEAUTIFUL FALLING

In unconscious fascination
while floods go planting the city
and girls hum themselves as hope
pulling in small street tails
west-end truths
intervals of the homeless
and damaged deals
take the cabman where
consternation creatures
wild on the road
involuntarily
attach agonized tears
of neglected, vanished
blocks
to illustrated
remains of eyes
taking the city
by hurt
where broken
is beautiful
falling

LAND YOUR MACHINE

Our houses become a prison…somehow paid
with odd requests – cheerful strings not in store
this is the dawn of true danger – mind games
on mushroom gear and drums, selling ourselves to Muzak
tailored governments…accepting foreign gods
and leaders…nickels on the motordrome…
slob beauty – bumblebee bubble
sun-energized workbench, ribs and powder
young clapping night

Life called devils
the morning
sorrow and longing
fingers of native sun
thought only of themselves
blessed in exiled
colors of thunder
the ”who”, the “so”
of a stormy sunrise
strange vivifying
melancholy
warmth and power
in dead town eyes
filled with pain
where wait of strength
suicide streets
and years of frost
were islands
of I, who
was poor
wrong
and had age
to die like a dog
buried
nameless
unthinkingly
bleeding
on another
outskirtal
child

PROFESSION AND THE OCEAN

We had rum and pretty wishes
on island-ideas
of fault, restoration
and time… but you,
my constant surfing angel
slipping on dust, aquariums crashing
into the morning
you saw the details of sky
spoke of sex
Indian massacres
pirate’s fuel
reefs and shark skin… fishes
echoed your grin… then there was
yourself… lost in expedition
with balanced western minds
circling brave for identity
diving in death
of ancient stars, mermaid
horses, drinking cold
salt-water, fading with
a dying nebula – we existed
a thousand tongues and roofs
below… passer-byes to wreck
coast… a year or two ago
what’s the color of town now,
my cordial boat still sailing?

THE SCALPEL

What killed me
was not enough
the holy, clear visioned edge
of a scalpel
lover of god
consuming dreams

Fire or dew
the comfort of my tomb
is a long road
to habit
that grew incredibly young
and tired of thought

About the Author

A.J. Kaufmann is a young poet and songwriter hailing from Poznan, Poland, whose debut poetry chapbook, “Siva in Rags,” was published on June 28, 2008 with a small American publisher, Kendra Steiner Editions. Since then he has published lots of poetry chapbooks in the USA, UK and Poland, including “Saint of Kreuzberg,” “Cut-up 2010” and “I’m Already Not Here.” His debut studio album, “Second Hand Man,” appeared on the Polish music market on October 2, 2011.

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What Others Say

“Reading A.J.’s work reminds me of the excitement I felt when I first read Gregory Corso, Lewis MacAdams, or Ted Berrigan 30+ years ago, the blunt-edged kaleidoscopic slash of the lines and the images, the flow like cheap malt liquor, the visionary of the urban wasteland.” (Bill Shute)

“Kaufmann is clearly an all around writer, someone who can troubleshoot the song or the poem with the confidence of a craftsman, and the practices of issuing short but numerous chaps will probably continue to give him a forum in which to keep from becoming specialized or pigeonholed for years to come.” (Paul Corman-Roberts)